gnilaeH 1 of 1 A mirror POV for Healing
by Kimi37212
Summary: Spoilery for BtVS 7.12. The bookend to "Healing" from Spike's point of view


Title: gnilaeH 1/1 (Mirror POV for "Healing")  
Author: Kimi  
Rating: PG 13  
Spoilers: For "Showtime" and "Potential" Post-"Bring on the Night"  
Summary: Might want to read this first, if you didn't the first time.  
http://www.the-sandlot.com/sandlot/fic.php?RECORD_KEY%28Fics%29=ID&ID(Fics)=775  
Feedback: You beta, you beta, you bet!   
Disclaimers: All Joss, all ME, all the time...  
Author's Notes: This is a parallel POV for "Healing." An experiment for me. All dialogue and action is the same, just seen through different eyes. And the endpoint is a bit different. Let me know what you think. Even vampires need a little TLC. And they are a little longer-winded than certain slayers!  
  
Thank you, Chris, Kelly and Colleen! Especially Chris, who had the burden of the one and only final beta. You kept me going when I was ready to call it a day.   
  
  
  
Gnilaeh 1/1  
  
Kimi  
  
  
On the edges of consciousness, there was music - a low hum, almost white noise, that rose and fell to a regular rhythm. He struggled to put words to it, but they didn't come. Humming soundlessly, he created a descant in his head.  
  
Something cool touched his face. Opening an eye just a crack, he saw something the color of a soft blue sky taking up his entire field of vision. The sun would be coming next. And it was too much trouble to fight It anymore.  
  
The humming trailed off as he slipped back into oblivion.  
  
+  
  
A shadow moved across him and settled nearby. Something was there with him, and he could no longer trust his bleary sight, no longer trust his perception.  
  
It was waiting.  
  
He frowned. Didn't give a bloody damn if the thing waited forever.  
  
+  
  
It had returned, casting its shade like a sapling in spring. The light would look mottled, he remembered, falling on the ground and setting up a pattern of tiny shadows. Then, the foliage would drop away as summer was left far behind - and a bright, mercilessly cold sun would cover the ground.  
  
The winter sun felt like dying.  
  
Christ, just get it over, he thought resentfully, as the presence faded away. He opened his eyes, sensing himself alone.  
  
Back in Buffy's basement, he thought distractedly. Had to be. Who else's basement featured a washing machine at one end and was tricked out with manacles at the other? 'It' had no end of ways to drive him insane. He giggled and a sharp stab of pain colored the aching haze a bright red. With the overload came unconsciousness.  
  
+  
  
Back in the basement, slayer right in front of him. He could feel it.  
  
Lovely. There'd been no rescue, no look of relief on her beautiful face, no small hands helping him out of the cave. Another hallucination, and a helluva lot more torturous than anything else they had thrown at him.  
  
A small noise crawled from his throat. Get it over. Get it over.  
  
"Shhh," she breathed softly.  
  
Except...  
  
It couldn't touch him. That was right, wasn't it? And this apparition was touching his hair. So maybe, just maybe...  
  
"Buffy...?" he ventured. The words were forced past swollen lips. Of course, when in her right mind would she touch his hair so comfortingly?  
  
He became very, very still, concentrating on opening his eyes. They didn't want to. In fact, one didn't.  
  
What was it with the hitting him in the face thing, anyway, he thought resentfully. And not just the slayer either. *Always* got it first. One eye was obviously buggered up completely. The other, well, focusing was a bit of a trick. He tried to see her. See It.  
  
"Shhh," she repeated in a whisper. "And yes, it's me. The really, really me."  
  
He nodded, and it hurt. She was off her head to be touching him, off her head to sound so soft and caring, but it was her.  
  
Had he told her? It sounded like she knew that It had been coming to him with her face. First, as the pleasant Buffy, solicitous of his welfare. The same kind of Buffy his love-addled brain had conjured up when he'd had RoboBoy make the 'Bot. 'Spike, it's me. It's you and it's me, and we'll get through this,' It had said. 'We'll get through this.' Worlds of promise in that. Promises that weren't real, weren't anything but figments.  
  
And later, coming to him, coaxing him to feed. He remembered that much now. Wished to God he didn't.   
  
"You're pretty bunged up." Her voice was apologetic, as if it were her fault. He tried to keep his face expressionless. Her next words were flavored with a wry candidness that stunned him. "I was just wondering if I could sit here and 'watch' you get better. Heal, I mean."  
  
He felt his eye try to widen in surprise. What he needed was a comeback. Something witty, clever, droll even, to let her know he was better. And since getting up and walking out was completely out of the question considering he couldn't make any of his limbs work... "Lack of entertainment?"   
  
That wasn't bad, he thought in satisfaction. Didn't come out the way it should without the body language to go with it, but bloody hell, he was doin' his best here, considering every part of his body was damn near immobile. But she deserved it. It hadn't been a hallucination. She'd fought her way in and gotten him out of there. Carried him out, or pretty close to it.   
  
"Everyone else is asleep," she told him. He thought about nodding, but somehow it wasn't a very appealing thought. He'd done that already and it had sent shock waves through his body.   
  
Made sense, though. Awake while they slept. She was on watch, the only one who could fight the fight and make it stick. And the basement was a part of the territory.  
  
"And I need you to be okay", she continued. "So be okay, all right?"   
  
Her eyes were soft and concerned. Right now, it was better than all the 'I love you's' he'd ever imagined. She 'needed' him to be okay. Needed *him*.   
  
He wished he could get up right then, and help her fight. Of course, he had to get well enough to do it. "Workin' on it..." He allowed his tired eye to close and his mind return to the welcome state of unconsciousness.  
  
+  
  
His body was on fire. He'd tried to get up earlier and found that a colony of sharp knives had taken up residence in his ribcage. Or what was left of his ribcage. He suspected the knives *were* his ribcage.  
  
By God, he'd never bitch about that Hellgod Glory's beating again in his unlife. That had been foreplay compared to this. Not as pleasant as fighting with Buffy, but infinitely easier to get over. Just laid around a bit, limped for a day or two, and went on.   
  
He wondered if having his spinal cord severed by a pipe organ was better. Because everything from the neck down was white-hot pain. And everything from the neck up was sore as hell. His sodding hair hurt!  
  
"Do you think you can eat now?"  
  
As images of all of those women, all of those people he'd fed on, swirled to the top of his thoughts, he lashed out. "Think I've eaten enough, don't you?" he snapped.  
  
She sat down on the stool, which had become a permanent resident beside the cot, with a mug full of pig's blood. "This could get real old, real fast. C'mon. Try sitting up."  
  
No use taking it out on her. After all, she was the reason he was here, healing in solitude, instead of being poked and prodded by that damned Hellmouth offspring of his. Ugliest bastard he'd ever seen. He struggled to sit up, almost snapping at her again as she reached out to help. Several grindings of his teeth and a smothered 'bloody hell' later, he was 'sitting' against the wall behind the cot. Wished he'd stayed flat.   
  
He reached for the outstretched mug and realized he'd spill every drop if he could even close his hand around it. His eyes fixed on the violently shaking hand. His hand! God, this was pathetic - and what was even more pathetic was that she had to see him like this.   
  
"Let me."   
  
Pity was not on his personal menu, thanks. He looked past the mug and pursed his lips. He wasn't an invalid. Just needed a little downtime.  
  
"What? It's not like I haven't done it before." She sounded a little outdone. Oh, yeah. Could be the eating crack he'd made. Without waiting for his acquiescence, she put the straw in his face, then smiled. Right, then. Pity party. Bloody great! He finished the mug off quickly, just to get it over. It tasted dead and flat. And it would, after all the choice morsels he'd been imbibing from. Made him sick to think about it.  
  
Think about something else, then. That'd do for a start. "How bad is it?"  
  
She looked relieved. "Pretty bad," she admitted. "Although I did manage to lop the head off that cute little vampire you made."  
  
Like he needed that reminder. Spike plus the Hellmouth. Just add blood and let it rise. He tried to get past the guilt and remember that chest-beating and moaning wouldn't do them any good. She was trying to be flippant. He could call her 'flippant' and raise her an 'ironic.' "Thank God for that," he said, summoning up a smile that felt as sick as he did. Try again. Go for the twisted smile of sarcasm. "Nasty bugger. Helluva kick," he said, gingerly touching his ribs. Big mistake. Pain radiated out from where he touched.   
  
What was really worrying him was his hip. Didn't care to see what was going on there, but recently, it had gone from completely numb to a solid, unending ache.   
  
Buffy grinned back. Good, she hadn't seen him wince. "I noticed. Not once, but several times."  
  
"Same here." Squinting, Spike leaned forward a little, to examine the slayer's face. God, how hadn't he noticed? Her sweet face. There were cuts healing on her jaw, her brow. He tried to sound unconcerned. She was the slayer. Didn't need his mollycoddling. Wouldn't like it. "Ouch." He settled back, biting down on a groan. "Got you, too?"  
  
She nodded as she touched her eyebrow. "Still sore. This one could leave a scar."  
  
Funny. She'd been hit right where the China slayer had sliced him. Wouldn't put it past It to have done that on purpose. The thought made him decidedly uncomfortable. Conspiracy theory, anyone? "Nah. Be fine in a few. Slayer healing. Better than vamps. You'll see," Spike assured her. He needed to lie down, but he couldn't with her there hovering. He settled for slight shift of position. Tried not to grit his teeth. She knew it was bad, but not how bad. "Now. How can I help?"  
  
Relief washed over her face. She smiled, but something wasn't quite right. It hurt him to see it. "Help me stop this thing." There was a plea buried in her simple words. "Help me protect everyone. Just... be here." He was beginning to be frightened for her. This was too much like the Buffy he remembered from the Glory Days. As she pushed her hair back over her shoulder, gathering her next words, he reconsidered his paranoia. She was fine, doing what she always did. Preparing to pull victory from the dark jaws of defeat. "I've got an army upstairs that needs training." Now, that was interesting, he thought. Armies could be good. "Well, maybe not an army," she said ruefully. "More like a pajama party really. Giles brought all of these slayers in training. Their watchers are dead. And they need..."  
  
"Training?" Spike prodded her, though he already knew her answer.   
  
Train a bunch of adolescent girls tagged for possible slayer-hood when what they really needed was an intervention from God and the angels?   
  
He watched her lean forward, a conspiratorial glint in her eye. "Exactly."  
  
Should have thrown himself in the bloody Hellmouth when he had the chance. He'd been a liability so far, not an asset. He brought his lips together as he considered that. *Had* been a liability. That could change, needed to change. "How many?" After all, help was help. And they *were* potential slayers. That counted for something.   
  
"Well, just four of them at the moment, but there are more coming." She sounded so hopeful that he didn't dare do anything but look supportive. "In fact, it looks like all that are left are coming," she confided.  
  
Which sounded like more manipulation and a bloody far-reaching plan to him. *All* that were left? Left as in 'remaining'? He risked a comment. "Homing in on the Hellmouth? Can't say as that's too smart. Like pigeons comin' home to roost."  
  
Buffy nodded. "And 'home' is not a very friendly place. Worst of all, it doesn't look like their watchers were nearly as 'progressive' as Giles."  
  
He tried to keep a straight face. "That's not good." He must have succeeded. No porcupine bristles anywhere on her. "So?"  
  
"They need a crash course in slaying. We're going to need everyone we've got to beat this thing." She pursed her lips. "And they've been... sheltered."  
  
"Well," Spike said reasonably, "it's not like they've been 'called,' have they? Watchers were keepin' 'em safe, I reckon." What? She'd been staking vampires at five years old with a sharp pencil? No. Until they were called, they were taught, nurtured, kept safe, in hope that one day, if they were the unluckiest birds on earth, they would live the lonely, isolated life of a slayer.  
  
Spike wondered if dead wasn't better. Immediately pushed that thought down.  
  
She was still explaining. "No field experience. I know you're not really up to it yet, but I need you to work with them. " Well, he could damn sure do that. Give them a real un-live vampire to fight with, practice on. He could do that, and do it well. Teach them some moves. Who better than him, a vampire who'd killed two slayers?  
  
Buffy's voice cut into his thoughts. "I remember fighting my first vampire and it's a good thing my Watcher was there." He looked at her curiously, waiting for her to confide in him. She looked uncomfortable. "I kinda missed."  
  
"You?" Spike was incredulous. "You missed?"  
  
"The heart," she rushed on, embarrassment now apparent. "I staked him, but I missed the heart." She got a defensive look around her mouth and eyes that made him want to chuckle, but he knew that it would hurt like hell. Her and his ribs. "But then, I hit it," she continued. Her chin rose, daring him to laugh. "And that was the only time ever, okay? So don't start."  
  
He did chuckle then. God, he loved her - everything about her. After all that had happened, all she'd been through, she was still a hero. And he could help. She'd said she believed in him. Deserved thanks for that. Undying devotion, loyalty... Hell, she deserved every bit of everything he could give her. "Guess a vampire with his fangs pulled is next best to the real thing," Spike said dryly. Inwardly, he felt a surge of triumph. He could *do* this!  
  
"Yeah. I thought so." She looked down, then back up. The solemn look in her eyes wrung him out. "I need you. Know you can really help."  
  
He smiled slowly. She needed him. She believed in him *and* she needed him. He might have cried if he had a tear duct that still worked.   
  
Well, couldn't let her down now, could he? "Fill that mug, Slayer. Better yet, bring a pint or two. Takes blood to heal. Better get on with it, hadn't I?" The thought of the pig's blood made him want to shudder, but he'd survive it. Sure wasn't going back to the alternative.  
  
"I don't *want* to push, but I have to. You understand, right?"  
  
She was apologizing again. How could she apologize for wanting to save the world? "No worries, love" he said reassuringly. "You can't push me any harder than *I* can push me."  
  
As she went upstairs, he began working on just how he would train a slayer. It would be a different kind of exercise for him. Smugly, he thought that he might just outdate the old handbook. Buffy trusted him enough to do something this important. He wouldn't let her down.  
  
As he grinned widely, every nerve in his face shrieked in answer.  
  
"Ow!" Bloody hell!  
  
________________________________________  
  
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___________________________________________________________  
  
"...So you build an imaginary world and then release yourself into it. ... I call it the Sandlot. But basically, once you know the parameters of the world, you can improvise and you cannot make a mistake, because you're in the world, basically. So, as sick as it sounds, in my head there's a little Sunnydale, and a widdle Buffy and a widdle Spike. And Spike wuvs Buffy."  
  
James Marsters, Shore Leave, July 14, 2002 


End file.
